


Home for Christmas

by PercySnail



Category: The Newsroom (US TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, newsroom secret santa 2014
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-03-03 10:04:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2847071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PercySnail/pseuds/PercySnail
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Leona and Charlie - 5 Christmas Eves they spent together; and 1 that they did not.  (I know, so cliche, I KNOW)   </p><p> </p><p>Written for <a href="http://thatgeeklover.tumblr.com">thatgeeklover on tumblr</a> for The Newsroom Secret Santa 2014.  I hope you enjoy this!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

I.  
“Merry Christmas, Leona.” He addresses the sentiment at her, as she moves down the bar, sliding in to the stool next to him. 

It doesn’t feel anything like Christmas. It is hot – stifling warmth exacerbated by oppressive humidity. Neither one has adapted, really to the idea that this is the holiday season; both unable to gather the energy to get in the spirit when they are surrounded by heat. Heat, and war. 

She is a product of New York City, used to cold Christmases spent in the heart of the city. Charlie is used to snow – mountains and piles of snow – when he celebrates this time of year. Yet, here they are. Together; at least. Neither alone on this holiday that no one here quite feels up to celebrating. 

The rest of their ‘group’ has dispersed, the Christmas Eve night casting a melancholy state on all of them. They’ve all retired to their own dwellings (or the dwellings of others, for the night, to find solace, companionship, or…some release) to reflect. Leona and Charlie are the last two at the bar; neither quite ready to be alone. 

“What would you be doing there, right now?” He asks her. She looks up from her glass, her head tilted as she makes sense of his inquiry. She’s not drunk, not really; just tired and sad and distracted by her own somber thoughts. She’s knows it’s not just Vietnam, more of or her own realizations since she’s been here; but the holidays have been like this for her since she was a child. 

“You mean – at home?” She clarifies, and when he flashes a crooked grin at her and murmurs a “where else” she finds herself laughing, just a little. 

“Of course you mean at home.” She closes her eyes, picturing a snow covered sidewalk, lights in shop windows, city trees decorated. She chuckles to herself as she pictures her night ending as it always does on the holidays – with a snifter of brandy, pulled up to the side of the bar down the street from her parent’s building. 

“Probably just like this – just a hell of a lot cooler.” 

His laugh is genuine, and she looks up to meet his eyes. “How ‘bout you?” 

She surprises herself with the genuine interest in what he will say. The two have formed a strange alliance – a friendship, spurred by mutual understanding and hope for the integrity of what they’re doing here – over the last weeks. She’s found herself drawn to him, his company, since she’s overheard him yelling at his boss. A man who constantly, in Charlie’s eyes, wanted only the most sensational parts of any story Charlie has brought to him. Charlie’s heart lies in telling the everyday - the real struggles of troops and civilians; of journalists and diplomats, the ups and downs and the in-betweens. The heart of it. 

She lets herself fall into the rhythm of his voice; staring as he describes as a family holiday that sounds domestic, and heart-warming. When he finishes, he orders another round for them both. She nods when he holds hers up in offering. It’s not about getting drunk; neither is keen on the idea of obliteration tonight; it’s about numbing things for a moment; quieting the roar that they all hear over here.  
Leona gathers her hair up, holding it off her neck. “It’s so hot down here,” she mutters. 

Her complaint earns her a nod in reciprocation. She slides off her bar stool, gesturing to the staircase in the corner. “I’ve got a fan – upstairs?” She motions towards their drinks. When he hesitates, she runs a hand over the one he has lingering on the bar. 

“Relax, Skinner. I’m only trying to drink without sweating to death.” Her tone is light, playful and wry as she continues. “I won’t take advantage of you.” 

She is struck by the fact that he blushes when she says that – through the dim light and the scraggly facial hair, she can make out the pink skin on his cheeks. 

He is an odd man, this Charlie. He is bold and open, reckless and strong-willed. Evocative and constantly emoting; they have bickered about politics, and journalism – she’s had his back in fights about women, and feminism, and the people of Vietnam. They’ve talked of everything they can talk in the short time they’ve know each other – deep, controversial things, things that would make her mother cring – yet now, he is blushing. Embarrassed about something as simple as being invited upstairs. Even if her intensions are pure, the fact that he is showing this shyness flickers something inside her. A desire to push – push past the bold façade he’s shown to her and everyone else, and see the timid version of this man that lies underneath. 

He acquiesces to her invitation, following her up the staircase to the modest flat she keeps above the bar. She can’t help the deliberate shake of her hips as she climbs in front of him; internally scolding herself, but carrying on nonetheless. 

When they enter, she switches on the fan. Both breathe easier in the sweet relief the blades bring. She perches on the edge of her bed, legs crossed underneath as she holds her drink. Charlie shifts, looking for a spot to sit; before he slides down the wall, his ass hitting the floor with a thump. 

“Floor’s hard,” she teases, and she’s glad to see his laugh back. 

Without intending to, they’ve altered the mood. What had been easy, natural, really, downstairs, is marred slightly now by the uncomfortable knowledge that they are, in fact, alone. Alone, and lonely, and while they’ve been finding solace in each other’s company for weeks now, they’ve never truly been alone. 

Leona is startled by the thrill she feels; a tensing in her limbs that seems to energize her, at this notion. Uneasily, she takes a sip of her drink. The silence is broken when he speaks. 

“Tell me about it?” Her eyebrows furrow as he she looks at him, a question in her eyes. “Tell me about Christmas. In New York.” He clarifies and she sighs, a deep mournful sound escaping her lips before she can stop it.

“If you don’t want to –“ 

She holds up a hand, interrupting him.

“It’s not – I just didn’t…I didn’t think…” She’s unsure how to continue. 

“I just didn’t think I’d miss it this much.” 

Their eyes meet then, intent and sure, and they share something – a moment. She feels caught up, cliché and silly as it sounds, in his gaze. It is a reflection of everything she feels as well; a longing for home and solace and peace. Not just a place to settle in, but a feeling; something they both are lacking. 

She feels all this for herself, and sees it in his eyes as well. He blinks once, slowly, then nods his understanding. His eyes are full of sadness, and she realizes that maybe this is why they’re here tonight. Maybe they are seeking something. 

She begins to talk then – of snow lined streets and walks to church; dinners out with family, and drinks with friends in the city. As she does so, Charlie pushes himself off the floor, and makes his way over to her. She scoots herself over, allowing a space near her for him – surprised when he sits, and crosses the small distance she’s left for him; the safe zone she’s allowed him. She smiles, but continues on. 

It’s only when he cups her face in his hands, tilting hers up slightly, that she stops. She stops talking, and looks at him, looks into his eyes again; sees the curiosity and the attraction mixed with the longing for something more. As his lips meet hers, she is struck by the odd sense of peace it brings. 

It almost feels like being home.


	2. Chapter 2

II. 

In retrospect, he thinks he must have been foolish to believe he wouldn’t see her here. He had told himself, when he landed this job, that it was a big city. A huge metropolis, and he would be out in the streets, while she was happily ensconced in her office; and there was little chance that Charlie Skinner would ever cross paths with Leona Lansing. Not in a city the size of New York. 

He should be startled, really, when he finally runs into her. However, despite the stories he tells himself; of never seeing her in a city this size; in his heart he knew it was an unavoidable fact. Two years into this assignment, and he’s managed to avoid her. They may work in the same industry, but her business savvy mind had led her to a different side of things, and he avoided any function that he thought she might be at. Until tonight.

It’s been five years, since he’s heard news from her. Six since they were a we.

He’d believed her, when she’d claimed she had to go back, for her. When Leona had let him hold her, crying, as she said that she didn’t want to be a journalist; that she wanted more, and that she knew she had to leave. 

He’d just always thought that was it.

That he’d go back, find her, and they could resume what they started in Vietnam. That she’d wait for him, because, even that night, she’d told him that she loved him, and that if she could, she’d stay there; stay with him.

Imagine his surprise, when he had returned stateside and heard the news. 

Leona – his Leona – engaged. 11 months since she’d left, and she’d gotten engaged. She’d told him via a phone call; not even letting him down in person. He’d wanted to confront her; yell and roar, but he found he didn’t have the heart, or energy. He’s simply hung up the phone, broken. He’d written a letter, posted it to her, and left New York City for Chicago. 

He’d never forgiven her.

Yet – here – tonight, this chance encounter – he can see how easily he might have. 

She is stunning. Negative history aside, she is a sight to behold. Hair piled up, silver ball gown hugging her skin – she is amazing. She doesn’t look like she did six years ago, not really – she looks older, wiser, and somehow, this makes her even more appealing to him. 

She is a powerhouse; the woman she’d wanted to become, even back then. Her husband stands beside her, proudly gazing at her; happy to be a kept man. Her kept man. 

Charlie sighs, sidling up to the bar. The paper’s president has forced his hand, made him come here tonight. The holiday party of all holiday parties the ‘place to be’ and he, a name they were trying to ‘get out there.’ It is the last place he wants to be; he’s wished and hoped for words that would sell themselves. But they aren’t, and this is where he needs to be, if he wants to get his stories told. Here tonight, at this party. With her.

He avoids her as long as he can; until he knows that she has spotted him. He knows that it’s likely she knew he’d be here. Her company, AWM, is hosting the party, and if he knows anything about Leona, it’s that she would have paid attention to every detail she could control – including the guest list. 

He feels her eyes on him. Looks up to see her gazing his way, a look he can’t quite name on her face. Her lips are drawn, tight, as if in anger, but her eyes are full of something else – for a second, he mistakes it for pity, before he realizes that it’s an entirely different emotion. Sadness. 

Charlie nods in her direction, acknowledging that he’s aware. He raises his glass in her direction, a silent toast, hopeful that it will deflect any more contact. 

It doesn’t. He watches her make apologies to the group of men she is talking to, and gather up the side of her gown. Leona makes her way towards the bar; towards him, and he can’t help but watch. She carries herself the same, a sort of regal slow march; her head always head high. As she gets closer, he feels his breath catch, at the knowledge that more than half a decade has passed, and everything has changed, but the basest instinct he has when he sees her is to gather her in his arms. Gather her in his arms, inhale the scent of her skin, kiss the spot right behind her ear that makes her knees buckle. 

He shakes it off, preparing himself as she takes her final steps towards him.

“Charlie Skinner.” She says it softly, as she motions to the bartender for a refill for her glass of champagne. 

“Leona…well, I suppose it’s Leona Lansing now, isn’t it?” He’s meant to say it in a matter of fact way, but he can’t help that it comes out as a sneer. 

She turns away from the bar, face unreadable for a moment.

“Yeah, I suppose it is.” She doesn’t pause before she begins talking again, brushing over his anger and resentment. “You’ve made quite a name for yourself, Charlie.” 

“As have you.” 

She nods, considering his words. 

“I read your piece on Tehran – it was – Charlie it was really good.” 

He takes the compliment in stride, unsure of where she’s headed, or what she’s doing here. Five years later, a heart broken, and apparently she wants to talk about the news. He waits as she continues.

“I’ll cut to the chase, Charlie. I want to start a news division, and I need an EP for the nightly program.” 

He laughs, loudly, before he knows what he’s doing. Laughs at the idea that she’s doing this, here, tonight. Laughs at the concept that she thinks that he’ll come work for her, after what she’s done. Laughs at her nerve; and the fact that he’s not even surprised by it. 

“What?” She asks, her tone on edge. “I figured enough time and space has passed from…”

And that’s when he feels it, finally. The anger floods him, fast and hard. He may be flattered, admittedly, that she would seek him out, but for her to think she can brush over their past for him to work for her? For her to think that he could see her, and ignore what she’d done to him. 

“Thanks, Leona, but I think I’ll pass. I’ve had better offers. “ He considers his next words carefully, savoring the thrill before he lands the final punch. “I don’t think I need to work for an amateur.” 

He knows it hurt her, has chosen the words precisely to wound her pride. Aware of her darkest secrets, darkest fears; he tosses them in her face. He downs the rest of his drink in one easy motion, slamming the glass on the bar slightly. He refuses to look at her, see what he’s done; lest he feel repentant. He doesn’t want to feel bad.

“Good night, Leona. Merry Christmas.” 

And before he can stop himself, he feels the words tumbling out of his mouth. The words he’d meant to ignore, meant to keep to himself. 

“I hope this was all worth it.” 

He doesn’t turn around. It’s easier that way.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In regards to the end of this chapter; I couldn't resist. I'm weak for fanon.

III.

It is the very opposite of their first night together; the one they find themselves in here, tonight. Warm breezes then turned bone chilling cold now; escaping into a room for heat rather than cooler temperatures. What started out as slow so many years ago, building up to a frenzy; tonight is turned on its head. Madness and turmoil mark the beginning of their journey tonight; and it ends in something deeper, and more methodical. 

Most of all, the contrast can be seen in the feelings that incite this physical manifestation. Vietnam had been marked with tenderness, and affection, and tonight? Tonight it starts with only anger. Anger, and a need to punish; in the only way they can anymore. 

Reluctantly, last year, he has come to work for her. She had persuaded him with promises of letting him do what he wants to do; tell the stories he’s so good at. A promise she’s stayed true to, really. He cannot fault her there.

Charlie cannot fault at her, really. She had been respectful, and cordial, and perhaps that has driven his anger even further. Or, maybe, he is angry at himself as well – for putting himself in the position he is in. Ironically, the closest friend he has at ACN these days has turned out to be Leona’s husband. The two had found themselves working closely together, and Charlie, despite his best intentions, genuinely enjoyed his company. 

He couldn’t forgive himself that. Because despite all their history, and the abandonment in the past, every time he sees her, he feels his heart clench in his chest. Not in anger, or rage; like that night at the party; but in sadness. An ache; a mournful ache. His stomach burns, his eyes sting, because damn it, if he can’t shake her. She has hurt him in the worst possible way, yet - he still loves her. He can’t not. He doesn’t know how.

So he had repaired what he could; attempting to rise to a level of maturity he didn’t always feel. He’d sought her out, tried to prove that he could be around her without feeling guilty. When she’d offered him the chance to cover an interview with an up and coming Chicago politician on Christmas Eve, if she could accompany, he’d thought he could handle it. 

Which is precisely how they found themselves, here, now.

“God damn it, Charlie. Are you seriously telling me you thought it was okay to ask him that?” Her tone is harsh, brittle, as she sips at the bourbon in front of her.

“And why the hell wouldn’t it be, Mrs. Lansing?” He sneers at her title, taking the shot in front of him before signaling to the waiter that he’d like another. 

“Oh, I don’t know. Let’s think.” She raises her finger to her lips, mimicking a deep thought. Her tone is rich with sarcasm and anger. 

“Maybe because you can’t just ask people if they’re fucking their campaign manger, CHARLIE?” 

He rolls his eyes, drumming his fingers on the table top in front of him. “But he was, Leona. He is. He has been.”

He continues. “He’s a married man, Leona, and he’s sleeping with his campaign manager, and the people of Chicago are poised to elect him in this damn by-election.” He looks at her; taking in the way her lips are drawn tight, her eyes narrowed. 

She doesn’t respond; letting the infused silence linger. Suddenly, she pushes her chair back, blinking hard as she shoves her arms through the sleeves of her tan overcoat. 

“Well, either way, Skinner. I can’t air that now. I won’t.” She turns on her heel, leaving him there in stunned silence. For a moment, he sits, watching her leave, before he snaps to attention. He throws bills on the table, grabs his own jacket, and dashes in her direction. 

“Leona!” He yells it down the crowded sidewalk. She turns, looking back in his direction, but continues to walk. “Leona, wait.” He jogs towards her, catching up quickly. 

“You can’t pull that interview, Leona.” His voice is low, direct. 

“Oh, but you’re wrong there, Charlie. I absolutely can pull that interview.” Her heels click on the pavement as she walks fast towards her hotel. “I absolutely can, and will pull that interview.” 

“But –“ He struggles to keep up with her, her brisk pace pushing them both forward. “But Leona, that’s exactly what the people need to see. It’s not a sensationalist piece, - it’s about a man who has slammed his opponent for her lifestyle.” He continues. “He’s called her morals questionable, because she’s unmarried, and yet – LEONA, just wait, god damn it!” 

She stops, leans in close to him for a moment, before hissing her answer. “Charlie, it’s fucking freezing, and I’m done having this fight. I’m. Not. Airing. The. Piece.” 

Her cheeks are pink from the chill in the air, or her anger, maybe both; and the wind has ruffled her hair. Her chest is heaving in front of him, rising and falling fast as she struggles to catch her breath in the frigid air. He should want to turn around, walk away from her, walk away from this fight, but god damn it if all he wants to do is kiss her, hard, in the middle of this sidewalk. God he loves fighting with her. He always has; even back in Vietnam. He’d subtly push her buttons; say something slightly inflammatory; hoping to get a rise out of her. Hoping she’d fight with her wit, and smarts; and that they could turn her flat upside down in debate before one or the other inevitably ended up turning their passion for the topic into passion for each other. 

This is different though; because this is then. This is now; and she’s not his to anger. Her eyes catch his, and he can see the frustration and anger in his own reflected in hers. He thinks he could be sympathetic, if it was anyone else, but it is not, it is her; and there is too much history. She knows him too well; knows what he’s fighting for, and this is the opposite of what he’s there for. She is brushing his integrity aside, on the “because I say so” terms he abhors; and so he says the words he hopes will cut her deep. 

“Coward.” 

Her mouth drops open, and he counts himself victorious. He’s been able to stun the unflappable Leona Lansing. As he watches her though, regret fills him – almost instantly. He thinks that he can see her eyes water, just slightly; and in the second before she sets her jaw, he sees her lips waver. 

“Good night, Charlie. I’m done having this fight.” 

She turns then, heading through the glass doors of the hotel. He doesn’t move, for a minute, breathing heavily in the cold air. He has hurt her, purposefully, and it’s supposed to feel good; he’s supposed to be happy he’s done it, but the opposite holds true.

Before he can stop himself, he is running after her, running through the lobby, towards the bank of elevators. Throwing his hand in between the closing door, launching himself inside, then staring at her; both confused; as the door closes.

“I’m…” He doesn’t know how to say it; because he’s sorry, he is, but he doesn’t care to admit it. He’s sorry, and he wishes he didn’t want to hurt her, time and time again, but he does, and he will. 

“How about this, Skinner? How about ‘I’m sorry, Leona. You’re not a coward, Leona. Thanks for this job, Leona.’” She shakes her head, chin up and refusing to meet his eyes. “Honestly, Charlie, the nerve you have.” 

And the regret dissipates slightly, as he realizes she is serious. “The nerve I have?” His mouth hangs open. “The nerve I have? Leona, you’re the one who brought me here?” 

The bell dings as they reach their floor. In a hushed tone, she manages to hiss out a “To do the job, Charlie. Not destroy a man’s life. A man, I should add, who has done very good things for AWM in the Midwest.” 

“Oh oh – so it’s a business deal, Leona. You wanted a fluff piece?” 

She drags her key out of her purse, opening her door. 

“Good night, Charlie. Let’s drop this, at least until the plane ride.” 

He shakes his head. “No way, Leona. No way.” He follows her into the room, noticing that she’s not shut the door in his face, let him walk through. 

“I’m not going to write happy pieces to get you more money, Leona. If that’s what you want, then you hired the wrong man.” 

She’s sliding out of her heels, pulling the backs of her earrings off, and it’s so familiar, even in this strange setting, and years later, that his breath catches for a moment. He crosses the room towards her, hoping he can get the point across. 

“I won’t do that, Leona.” He touches her arm, gently, before repeating himself. “I won’t.” 

As he waits for her answer, he realizes the tone has changed, here in this room. The passion is still there, but now that he knows he’s hurt her, the anger has faded. It has moved to something more civil, a fight where both sides could be heard. 

She looks at the hand on her arm, then back at him. She closes her eyes, nods once. 

“I know.” The words are a whisper. “I know, but I need you to. ACN – if it has any hope, it’s got to expand this way too. We need the Midwest, Charlie.” 

He looks at her, looks into her eyes, and realizes that this isn’t about just her, or her company – this is about his part too. This is about his newsroom, his livelihood, and in her own way, Leona is trying to push them towards success. He is suddenly repentant. 

The silence stretches on, as their gaze stays locked in place. 

“I should…I should go.” He drops his hand off her arm, but doesn’t look away. He doesn’t know what to say, or what to do, now that he knows why she has pulled his piece. “Good night, Lee.” 

Maybe it’s the nickname that she hasn’t heard in years, or the way he seems to understand, but as he turns to leave, she reaches out for him; for his hand. Startled, he looks down, and without thinking, he steps back into her space, interlocking his fingers with hers.

This time, it is her that grasps his face in her hands, pulling him down towards her as she rocks up on the balls of her feet. When their lips meet, this time; she is struck by how familiar it feels. 

**

Nine months later, on an unseasonably warm September day, she asks her husband to make sure their friend, Charlie Skinner, knows about the birth of the newest member of the Lansing family.


	4. Chapter 4

IV. 

They’ve never talked about it. Never mentioned the timing of Reese’s birth, or the transgression that night in Chicago. Perhaps it was the guilt, afterwards (although both admit to themselves, anyways, that in that moment, there was no guilt). 

Charlie continued to grow close to her husband; and although she never would have said she was a friend to Nancy, their relationship was…friendly. Leona could never shake the fact that his wife knew what her husband did not – the history between the two. Charlie had admitted that night that he had told her before he proposed; had wanted to be as upfront as possible. It hadn’t mattered to Nancy, he said.

And maybe, Leona reflects as she watches the couple across the room, maybe that’s the truth. Nancy looks so natural on her husband’s arm tonight, her red hair pinned half up, loose curls surrounding her face as she brushes a lock of hair off his forehead. Leona watches for a moment, a smile on her lips, before she turns to head upstairs to her own office. She is happy to see him happy; well cared for. Looked after in a way that she never would have been able to. 

Sitting at her desk, she places a call to her town house.

“Allison – please, put Reese on. No, I don’t care if he’s watching a movie. No. Allison, just put my son on the phone.” 

As she waits to talk to her son, she massages the back of her neck, sliding lower in her chair. The last place she wants to be is here, tonight. Even if she is the business woman extraordinaire, the example to all women who strived for the top – she’d much rather be home, with her son, on Christmas Eve. Unfortunately, news broke at the last second, and she’s stuck. There’s no way in hell she’s letting Charlie Skinner broadcast this without her explicit guidance. This story is too controversial for that.

She turns her chair, facing the windows to the city. 

“Hi, sweetheart. Yeah, I know I said – “ She listens to her son answer. “Reese, I’m sorry, I’ll be home in…no longer than two hours. We’ll still have time tonight, I promise.” 

She listens as the line goes dead. Reese has her anger, and impulsiveness, and isn’t easily placated. Leona lets the phone linger in her hands, continuing to look out at the skyline in silence.

“Leona – you don’t have to – “ She jumps at the intrusion, turning her chair at the sound of his voice. 

“Jesus Christ, Skinner, you scared the crap out of me.” 

A crooked smile crosses his face. “Not my intention, I promise.” Charlie gestures to the phone in her hand. “Reese?” 

She sighs, squeezing her eyes shut as she replaces the receiver in its cradle. “Yeah, he’s – he’s pissed I’m not home. He’s certainly got my temper. He hung up on me.” 

Charlie laughs; a genuine, real one, as he crosses the room, and slides in to the chair across from her desk. 

“How’s Nancy?” Leona asks, quickly changing the subject. They never linger on the topic of Reese Lansing for long, not together. 

“Good, good. She brought me some food from her parent’s house. Katy and her are headed home; she wants to beat Santa there.” 

They sit for a moment, neither speaking as they both examine the desk, the floor; the silence comfortable enough. 

“Leona, you don’t have to stay.” He doesn’t look up as he talks, his eyes firmly on his hands, clasped in his lap. 

“Charlie, I…” Leona pauses; realizing she might as well continue, he knows the reason she’s here. “I don’t want to say I don’t trust you, but I don’t trust you. We can’t piss people off with this one.” 

He takes a deep breath, reigning in the knee jerk reaction he has to respond in anger. It is Christmas, and she’s doing her job; and he knows that. He does. Any other night, he might rise to the level of fighting back with her, but tonight, he won’t. 

“I get it, Leona. I do. I…” He looks at her then, his eyes sad. “You should be with Reese, tonight. He…this is the first Christmas, with just you two, and – you should be with Reese.” 

He says it with an air of tenderness, one that she immediately recognizes, and understands. She doesn’t respond, just continues to look at him. Moments pass, as she weighs what he is saying, what he is doing. 

Charlie breaks the silence. “I promise, Leona. Tonight, I’ll behave. You can trust me on this.” He looks down, at his hands again. “Reese needs you, Lee. You’re all he’s got.” 

She wonders then, if it’s possible that she can actually feel her heart break, just a little. She has thought herself above all that sentiment. As she looks at him, and sees the absolute genuine sentiment to his words, she wonders if this is exactly the opposite of where they each should be. If times had been different, if the timing had been right; if she hadn’t left Vietnam - the what ifs are futile, she knows; and she never entertains them, but here, tonight, looking at him looking at her, she can’t help it. 

She shakes it off, blinks back the tears that threaten to spill out. It was never going to be their future; she knows. She lets a sad, slow smile cross her lips as she considers the idea. 

Before she can answer, he’s changing the mood, shifting it for the sake of both of them. “Just this once, though.” 

She laughs, breath coming out in relief – relief that she’s not about to cry, not here, not in this place. This is her business. Her work place. Her domain. She meets his eyes, nods once. 

“Okay, Skinner. But – if you tell a soul, I’ll have your ass.” She narrows her eyes. “And this doesn’t buy you any sort of reprieve. Don’t think I won’t tear into you on the 26th for any bullshit you try to pull.” 

Charlie puts up his hands, a sign of mock surrender. “I wouldn’t dream of it, Mrs. Lansing.” 

They both stand as she gathers her coat and purse. Walk in tandem out of her office, as she reaches down, a hand quickly going to his elbow. 

“Merry Christmas, Charlie.” 

“Merry Christmas, Leona.”


	5. Chapter 5

V. 

“Leona Lansing! How kind of you to grace us with your presence!” 

She rolls her eyes at his sarcastic statement, catching the eyes of Will and Mac, who both seem to fighting back their own smiles. 

“I should hope so, Charlie. It was my money and my lawyer that got us out of this whole goddamn mess. I think I earned the right to crash your little shin dig.” 

He laughs, and she cracks a grin back. His eyes are sparkling, and for the first time in awhile, he looks truly…happy. Merry, and happy, and relaxed. The team has been dealing with the fall out from Dantana for the last months, and now that they’re in the clear, an impromptu Christmas Eve party has broken out in the middle of the day in the bullpen. 

It may not be over – she is certain they will lose supporters, and advertising money, and ratings will drop – but his team is still together, and for that, she is happy. For him. For them. For her. 

Charlie is headed her way, glass of champagne in hand. “Drink, Mrs. Lansing?” He says in that teasing tone; the one she recognizes from nights past. They may bicker, and scream, but since that night in Chicago, he only refers to her as that when he is happy. 

And drunk.

This isn’t his normal drunk though (because oh, yes, she’s noticed; the constant glass in hand, in his office, in meetings, at parties; impossible to miss). This isn’t the melancholy air of responsibility and anger watered down with expensive bourbon. This is a momentary shift; a buzzed and smiling Charlie Skinner.

He looks younger, this way. He looks…familiar; and she knows exactly why, but doesn’t let her mind linger on the memory of a bearded Charlie Skinner, leaning over, mouth pressed to hers; so many Christmas Eves ago. Instead, Leona accepts the glass, pushes the thoughts away. 

“Thanks, Charlie.” 

“Some day, huh?” They sit, taking the work space of some young reporter, or aide. Leona taking the chair; he perching on the metal desk. 

“Some day, indeed.” She answers, taking a sip of her champagne. 

They sit in silence, watching a drunk Neal spin Tess around a small space. 

“I suppose we do owe you some degree of thanks, Leona.” He looks at her, drumming his fingers on the desk. “You didn’t accept our resignations; you wouldn’t. You knew we could do this.” 

She chuckles to herself. “Yeah – well. I suppose my instincts about it were right.” She looks at him, her eyes travelling from the hand on the desk up his arm, to his face. “They usually are.” 

He catches her eyes then. Remembering her instincts about him; about what he could do here. He smiles at her; that half smile that she knows is the one he uses only around friends, and the people he cares for. She grins back, tilts her chin up towards him. “Besides. I never would have let you run with your tail between your legs. Not on my dime.” 

A belly laugh erupts from him then; real and solid. Enough that others around them turn and look, surprised that Charlie is laughing – actually laughing – with Leona Lansing. She shakes her head, dismissing their gazes, and they look away. 

He stands up, drains the last of his champagne. She does the same, and as he extends a hand to help her from her chair, he leans in, closely. The mood shifts, as he tightens his grip; it is not harsh, merely a reluctance to let go. He lowers his head towards her ear and says, just loud enough for her to hear, “I hope we made you proud, Leona. I hope…we made you proud.” 

She pulls back, head tilted, as she looks at him sadly. The fact that he didn’t know; hadn’t known that he had; that they all had – that he’s doubted that – is a lot to bear. Suddenly, he is the young man, back in Vietnam; arguing on the phone as she watches. Arguing for the integrity of the story; of doing the news right. Here, in front of her, is the man that’s been her balance; her cross to bear, the nagging reminder in her ear all these years.

She reaches for him, one hand landing on his upper arm, and staying there. 

“Of course you have, Charlie. ACN is…ACN is exactly what you hoped it could be.” 

They stand for a moment, looking at each other, before they both realize that they’re not alone, not in her office, or the hallway; but in the middle of the bullpen. Neither should be here, not really; and they definitely shouldn’t be here with her hand on his arm. She drops her arm, gathering herself. 

“Anyways, I’ve got to go. Reese wants me to meet him and that Rockette for dinner. Apparently it’s getting serious.” 

Charlie smiles, eyes twinkling as he steps back. 

“Good night, Leona.” She starts out, heading towards the door. She catches Maggie Jordan in the hallway outside the bullpen. 

Flustered, Maggie looks at her. “Merry Christmas, Mrs. Lansing.” 

Leona smiles.

“Merry Christmas.”


	6. Chapter 6

EPILOGUE 

 

She has the car drop her off at the gate. She doesn’t want anyone – trusted driver or not – to see her; not today. She will be brief; she is on her way to Reese and Becca’s country place for a holiday dinner.

“Damn” she curses under her breath; making her way up the small path towards his stone. These heels are impractical, hard as hell to walk through gravel in. She is familiar enough with the graveyard; she’s brought Reese here once, on the anniversary of his death. He still doesn’t know; probably will never know; but he’d spent a year feeling guilty about missing Charlie’s funeral, and she needed to help him absolve it. 

This will be her first visit, alone, though. 

The wind is cold; biting. As she reaches his grave, she tucks the lower half of her face into the oversized scarf that covers her hair and neck. She bends down, fingering the sprig of holly that decorates the side of it. A smile crosses her face; she talks to Nancy weekly now; has been aware that she comes often, makes sure the site is kept up. 

Leona rights herself, the smile disappearing from her face as she reads the name. The name, the dates, and all that wasn’t there. That silly simplistic saying about life being in the dash certainly plays out true. Held in his - a life come full circle; a young man who built exactly what he set out to do; who’d died, in the end, literally fighting for it to stay that way. 

He’d fought with her years to make ACN what it could be; he’d fought for years to make sure that the dreams they’d talked about came true. Even when she forgot, he’d been there to remind her. Sometimes gently; a simple, “Let’s do the news, you and me.” Sometimes harshly – angry words, and shouting matches echoing in his office. 

She hadn’t realized what a constant he had been until he was gone. For the better part of her life, he had been there, in some form. He had been there, and he had pushed her to remember what she had set out to do, what they had set out to do, so many years ago. To tell the story. The right way. 

Yet, for a man who’d strived to always tell the story, there was one story of his own that would never be told. One story that could never be told – the one of Leona and Charlie. The truths of it would die with her; and she knows it has to be this way; should really be this way. What they had; what they always have, isn’t something for anyone else to know. 

She kisses the tips of her fingers and touches the cold stone. Memories of Christmas past pass through her mind; and she lets the memories run through before she wistfully settles on the first. She pictures the warm heat, the small flat, and the way he had kissed her. Leona runs her fingers over her own lips, remembering it all. 

From the beginning he had been her home; in ways that only both knew; and neither could explain. He had been her balance, and she his; and in the end, they’d succeeded. 

ACN would go on; she’d make sure of it. The news the way Charlie Skinner knew it should be told wouldn’t die with him. She’d get it back from Pruitt, get it back for him. 

She turns, ready to head back to her car, her family and her life. Before she does, she murmurs under her breath. 

“Merry Christmas, Charlie.”


End file.
